The Bogle
by justrumbelledearie
Summary: Belle's best friend is a strange creature. She loves him, of course, but should she wed him?


Returning from her errand, Belle finds the copper teakettle hanging from a coat hook. Her favorite wool sweater is tucked snugly into bed, and the mantle clock has been moved from the stone hearth to the cottage windowsill. All of her chairs have been upended.

Rumple is vexed that she didn't walk with him down to the coast this morning, but Belle has weightier concerns than his passing fits of ill-temper. Her baby brother's happiness hangs in the balance, and she has an important decision to make.

There is a clatter against the windowpane, and of course it's _him,_ throwing pebbles. Belle bangs thrice against the glass with her fist to let Rumple know she'll be out shortly, but that she, too, is in a foul temper, and he had best not provoke her further.

With a huff, Belle tugs her muddy boots back on her feet and stomps out the front door.

"I had to go to town," she announces to the sea air and rocky crags. "I can't run off with you lickety-split whenever you please, Rumple. Not like when we were children. I'm an adult now, with adult responsibilities." She doesn't bother to crane her neck looking for him. He will show himself once he's come out of his snit.

"You sold your silver locket. And your mother's ring." He is perched on the roof of her thatched hut, his pointed chin resting on his bony knees. His long, gray fingers worry a bit of moss from a rock.

With a sigh, Belle retrieves the old ladder from under the cottage eaves and climbs up to sit beside him.

"Yes, I sold them," she agrees, the hard edge leaving her voice. "I had to. Master MacGouran has agreed to take Bae on as his apprentice for the very modest sum of seventy-five pounds. Plus, our rent is due, and, look, the roof is leaking." Belle pokes at the bald patches in the thatched rushes. "Probably from _you,_ scampering about up here."

"I could have gotten you the money," Rumple mutters, flinging his rock beyond the drystone wall surrounding the cottage and startling some rabbits.

"_Stolen_ it, you mean," Belle murmurs, leaning against him. She threads her fingers through his and watches the ospreys wheel and dive into the frothy surf. "Do you remember Edgar Gold? The boy with the blond curls you nearly drowned two summers back by throwing your voice into the sea caverns?"

He titters, remembering his brilliant ventriloquism: "I'm lost! Lost! Save me!" and the way the plump, rosy-faced boy had thrown himself into the swirling water. "Oh, yes, I recall gallant young Edgar quite well. If I remember correctly, that was the summer he tried to kiss you, the _ninny._ I hear he's grown quite stout." He titters again.

"If he's grown stout, it's likely because there is never a shortage of good things to eat at his father's house." Belle examines her worn, muddy boots. "He wants to marry me."

He snorts, "_Marry_ you? I'll toss him down a well."

"If I agree, his father will give us our own townhome, plus this croft for Bae, free and clear, when Bae has finished his apprenticeship and is ready to take a wife." Belle draws their entwined fingers into her lap and sighs. "It wouldn't be a bad life, Rumple. Edgar really is quite fond of me, and he would be a kind, devoted husband. Also, I've wished for children."

"Children? You never told _me_ you wanted a baby." He grunts, picking a cockleshell from his peculiar cloak and tapping it against his ruined teeth.

"The things I _don't_ tell you could fill a book," Belle snaps, and he snatches his hand back with a snarl.

Things weren't always like this between them.

They met as children: he a tiny, vexing Bogle, with seaweed in his hair and she a wee orphan with sad doe eyes. From the first startled laugh Rumple had drawn from Belle's dainty mouth, they had been inseparable.

Instead of sleeping in the sea caverns with the rest of the Bogles, he would creep through her window at night, careful not to wake her brother or Belle's sleeping spinster Auntie, and they would nestle together beneath patchwork quilts until daybreak. When Auntie died, and Belle and Bae were once again alone in the world, Belle had sobbed all of her fears into his skinny, craggy chest, and he had sworn he would never, ever leave her. He would _die_ before he'd let his Belle come to any harm.

But something had shifted recently. Nothing concrete. The air between them simply crackled with an edgy, unspent energy, and they were more apt to snipe at one another, sometimes even tussling, shouting, and tugging hair. Belle woke one night to find Rumple staring at her in the dark, his hand resting lightly on her hip bone, and when she had pulled a face at him, he had leapt up, cursing, and stomped out of the cottage.

Ever since, he has slept in the sea caves with the other Bogles, and his moods have been quite foul.

Yet, however aggravating, he is still her best and closest friend, and Belle knows he will not easily accede to losing her to dull, wifely duties and a stodgy townhome.

"I want a good life for Bae, with no debt, and a solid roof over both our heads that doesn't leak with every little squall. I want a baby on my hip and something warm to wear this winter. I want a proper Christmas this year, with meat on the table and extra candles for the tree. Stop looking at me like that, Rumple! Plenty of young couples grow to love each other after marriage; it's how it's been done for hundreds of years! And you and I will still see plenty of one another."

He has been nervously raking his hands back and forth through his long, dirty hair throughout this little speech of hers, and it is in a wild tangle by the time Belle stops talking.

"So you want _comfort_ now? You never wanted comfort before! You were content just to be with me, rambling outside all day, whatever the weather!" He stands and leaps from the roof, landing in a low crouch and frightening the chickens. Turning, he jabs a long finger in her direction, narrowing his eyes. "You've already made up your mind to marry this clod! Don't tell me you haven't, Belle. It's written all over your face."

"No, Rumple, I _haven't_…" He huffs and holds the ladder while she catches up her skirts and climbs carefully down. "I'll need to speak with Bae tonight over dinner. Edgar said he would be happy to wait until tomorrow for my answer. And I also need to know that you won't…that you won't…"

Her face crumples, and she quickly hides it behind two fists.

Snarling, he yanks her close, wrapping one arm tightly around her waist and another around her narrow, shaking shoulders. They rock slowly side-to-side while Belle cries loud, angry tears.

He whispers a fond memory: teaching her to swim in the tide pools. Does she remember how she sputtered when the salt water touched her tongue for the first time? Belle laughs and gradually calms, and his spindly hand sweeps up and down her spine, at last creeping up past her shoulders to cradle and rub her skull.

Her head falls back so that she is staring him full in the face, and Belle is finally able to finish her sentence: "I need to know…that you won't hate me."

"I hate _him,_ not you," Rumple replies fiercely, but his hand is gentle as it strokes her scalp and twists in her brown curls. "Promise me something, Belle…promise me you won't marry the ninny if I can get this croft for Bae and a proper home for you. If you want children, _I'll_ give you children. Marry me instead, and I promise you'll never want for anything."

He uses a sharp fingernail to brush away a lock of hair that the wind has blown across her face. His hand is just the slightest bit unsteady

"You? Why would you _want_ to marry me, Rumple? Bogles don't marry. And where would we live? In a cave? In a sea shanty?"

_"No!_ No, not in a _cave _Belle, just…give me until tonight, and promise me…if I can give you comfort and children and give Bae security, you'll say yes?"

His eyes — truly his most human feature — search her face. They are a lovely, golden brown, like the beach sand after a rainstorm. Belle realizes her mouth is hanging open, and she promptly shuts it.

"If it's what you truly want, Rumple…of course I'd much rather be with you…only promise me this: you'll be honest in your dealings. No tricks. No thievery."

"I give you my word. No stolen babies. No plump suitors tossed into the sea." His eyes are dancing, and Belle realizes this is the happiest she's seen him in such a long time. He tugs her to him for a fierce, tight squeeze, his thin lips brushing over the crown of her head, then pulls away, bowing with a flourish. "Until tonight, milady! There's so much to be done…"

Belle laughs, watching him go. She feels strangely giddy. It's an odd thought, to marry your best friend, but certainly there's no pair better suited. They've been two halves of the same whole since childhood. Though his hasty proposal is certainly the result of Rumple's rather flagrant possessiveness, it seems a better chance at happiness than any she's thought of before. Better to be sparring with Rumple than snoring next to sweet, dull Edgar.

Belle smiles, hurrying inside to warm herself, right the chairs, and get a start on dinner.

For a boy who uses a crutch, Bae is surprisingly stealthy. He manages to watch his older sister undetected for several minutes from the doorway of their cottage. She's singing as she stirs a large, steaming pot.

It is most unusual.

"You look different," he says at last, limping over to their small kitchen table. "You seem…tipsy almost. Your face is flushed. What happened?"

"Can't I simply be happy to be making dinner for my baby brother?" Belle asks, presenting him with a plateful of piping hot buttermilk biscuits. Bae snorts, and she chuckles. "Oh alright, I'll tell you. Your sister received not one, but _two_ marriage proposals today. One from Edgar Gold, whose father promised me a townhome and this croft, free of debt, if I agree, and the other…from Rumple!"

"Ha! Poor old Edgar!" Bae laughs, ladling out two steaming bowls of turnip soup.

"Excuse me? Why 'poor Edgar?'" Belle reaches for a biscuit, her brow furrowed. "I'm not chopped liver, Bae. _Two_ marriage proposals, in a single day!"

"I wasn't winding you up. And, _vain,_ Belle! I only meant that…you and Rumple belong to one another, so poor old Edgar is going to be stuck with an empty townhome and a broken heart."

This casual observation does not sit entirely easy with Belle.

_Of course_ a part of her belongs to Rumple; he's as much her family as Bae is. But will it be possible to love him…as a wife loves a husband?

Sometimes, secretly, she thinks she might, when they sit together on her rooftop, and he's looking out to sea, or, until recently, when she held him at night, and he would sigh in his sleep, tucking his face against her shoulder. He really can be endearingly pensive and tremendously sweet.

But he can also be foul-mouthed, exasperating, and unbelievably foolish.

How do you fall in love with someone who's already deep, deep in your bones? When you're already so entirely twined together that you don't know where he ends and you leave off? Rumple is her _twin,_ in nearly all ways except blood. And it does seem a bit perverse to marry…herself.

Sighing, Belle puts these worries aside. What's promised is promised.

"You've distracted me from my most important news, Bae."

Bae freezes, his spoon hovering below his chin. "More important than two marriage proposals?"

"Yes," Belle insists, vexed that she cannot disguise how absolutely addled she feels this evening. "Even more important than that. I've contracted for your apprenticeship with Master MacGouran. You can start straightaway, and you'll be a guest in his home and his smithy for the next two years. Afterwards, he swears up and down that you'll know everything you need to know to set up your own shop here at the croft, and he'll even give you an anvil and vise to start with."

_"Truly,_ Belle? And I can start straightaway?" Bae has pushed himself up to stand and is absolutely beaming.

"Yes, Bae, _truly._ Only promise me that…that you'll remember to miss me sometimes?" Belle's eyes water at the thought of her baby brother making his way in the world. Leaving her and growing up.

"When will I even have the opportunity to miss you? We'll likely see each other every day in town!" Bae looks as though he'd like to rush out the front door and shout his good news into the chill night air.

"I know who else you'll see daily," Belle replies tartly, brushing at her wet eyes. "Master MacGouran's daughter, Emma. Stop scowling, and look at me, Bae! I'm quite serious. I've watched you make cow eyes at her for the past year, and while you live under her father's roof, you're to keep a respectful distance. Understood?" Belle fixes him with her sternest eldest sister look. "I remember what sixteen feels like, but I still expect you to keep your head on straight, young sir."

Thoroughly annoyed, Bae agrees, grudgingly, to give Miss Emma a wide berth while they sleep under the same roof. He and Belle finish their suppers in silence, each lost to their own thoughts.

Yet Bae's excitement is such that he cannot hold tight to his quiet indignation. "You know, Belle, once I have my smithy established, I'm going to ask Emma to marry me." He is once again in high spirits as he clears and washes the dishes, plotting out his happy future.

"I don't doubt it, Bae. But let's have one wedding at a time, please." Belle rests her chin in her palm and glances up at the mantle clock she has returned to her chimneypiece. Whatever can be keeping Rumple?

At half past midnight, Belle wakes to the soft click of a door being pulled gently shut. Rumple scruffs his leather boots upon the worn rag rug, then crosses the room to crouch at her bedside.

"Don't wake up Bae," she murmurs, still half-dreaming. "Where have you been?"

"Making arrangements," he shrugs, trying to appear calm when it's clear he is anything but. Rumple is all but _vibrating_ with nervous energy. When Belle reaches out to grasp his bony hand, she is startled to discover it's cold as ice.

"Goodness! Come here to me and get warm, Rumple." She hastily makes room for him on the narrow, wooden bed, drawing back the quilt.

He cannot comply quickly enough.

Rumple tugs off his boots, then his damp cloak, and then he is back within the warm circle of her arms, his strange face hidden against her sweet-smelling neck and the blanket tucked tightly around them both. It's as though he never left. He sighs his gratitude into her shoulder while Belle begins to work the tangles out of his matted hair with her deft little fingers.

"What 'arrangements' did you make?" she asks, indulging herself by pressing several fond little kisses to his sharp, hooked nose. Dazed, he raises his head to look at her. She _has_ missed him, more than she realized, even.

Lifting himself up, leaning upon his elbow, he dips his long fingers into his tunic pocket. "Arrangements for _these,_ firstly."

Cupped delicately in his gray palm is a tangle of silver and gold: her mother's silver locket and the intricate, golden wedding band.

"Oh, Rumple!" He watches as she reaches out to touch them with her fingertips, tentatively, as if she is afraid they will once more disappear. "However did you get them? You didn't—?"

"Steal them? No," he promises, fastening the locket round Belle's slender neck and carefully sliding the gold ring back onto her finger, "I gave you my word. I didn't swipe them, lovely." A wicked little grin spreads across his face. "Although, I _could_ have." She giggles and gives his chest a little shove beneath the bedclothes, and then they both duck their heads to hide their silly grins, happy to at last be fully reconciled.

"I wish you would have told me sooner you needed money, Belle," he says, quickly sobering. "Money means nothing to Bogles." Reaching into his pocket once more, he draws out three gold coins. "But it's easy enough to come by. These come from a shipwreck just off shore."

_"Not,"_ he hastens to add, seeing her little frown, "one caused by Bogles. This wreck is centuries old. You may have however much coin you like. And," he adds, suddenly shy, "you don't need to marry me to get it. You don't need to marry _anyone, _if you don't wish to. Husband or no, you and Bae will never want for anything, not ever again. I swear it."

Belle retrieves the gold coins from Rumple's open palm and slides them beneath her pillow. "It's _because_ Bogles care nothing for money that I didn't like to mention it," she explains, wrinkling her nose, "It seemed a bit…tawdry. And we never _did_ care for such things, growing up, did we? Even though Auntie was always so poor. Rumple, I wish I didn't need to care about them now."

"You don't," he interrupts, "Not ever again!" and she smiles at his fervor.

"What if," Belle begins, feeling suddenly very foolish and very uncertain, "What if I wished to marry you…for myself? Because I want you for my own? What if I wished us to marry…for love?" She blushes, saying this, right down to the roots of her sleep-tousled hair. It's only in saying it aloud that she realizes how very much she desires his troth.

Rumple sucks in his breath sharply and holds it, his eyes searching hers for some hint of how to proceed.

"Then…you would make me the happiest creature that ever lived," he says at long last, his voice low and halting and hoarse.

Smiling a little at that, Belle reaches out to touch his cold cheek. "Rumple," she says softly, "marry me? For love?"

He gives a jerky, eager little nod, so she slips a warm hand behind his neck, underneath his long hair, and gives him a gentle tug forward. For a brief moment he resists, but it's only wonder and shock, and Belle is a good deal stronger than she looks.

Their dry lips brush past one another at first: a tender, hesitant greeting, but then Rumple finds his nerve, and he traces a fingertip along the underside of her chin, tilting it upwards, and Belle dares to part her lips, just a little, and then the kiss deepens enough that they are sharing the same air and tasting each other for the first time.

It is heavenly.

Thinking it might be nice to be a bit closer, Belle wriggles until she is flush against him, one hand resting lightly against his rawboned chest, her head tipped back, her eyes closed. Rumple's warm lips find hers again and again, eager and inexpert, and his long fingers knead her slender back. Unlike his hands, his breath is hot, and it is coming in quick, ragged little pants against her face.

When the tip of Belle's moist, pink tongue boldly sweeps over his lower lip, he jerks and groans and pulls away, his eyes wide and gleaming and dark.

"They're waiting for us Belle," he explains, sounding utterly wrecked, "All of the Bogles…down by the shore. They're waiting for our ceremony. And afterwards…afterwards I'll show you our new home."

Rumple extracts himself from the tight circle of her arms and begins to stand, then falls back, snatching up her hand and pressing a frantic kiss to her palm. "I love you, Belle," he confesses, pressing her fingers to his wildly pounding heart, "I've loved you for as long as I can remember. I never dared to hope—ah!" he shakes his head, long hair falling forward, and before she can reach out to brush it back, Rumple has rolled from the bed and is offering her a hand to help her up as well.

His trousers arrest her attention, the way they tent outwards, announcing his desire. She's been aware of that strange, male part of him for many long years now. He would harden in his sleep and also in the early mornings, while they shared the same bed, and it gave them both pleasure for him to press a little against her hip while Belle raked the tangles from his hair with her fingernails.

Rumple modestly turns away, reaching for her wool sweater and long, patched coat, discretely adjusting himself, and she realizes that this is a secret she will learn as a wife, possibly tonight even: how to lay with him. How to gratify that mysterious swell of his desire. It is a heady, thrilling thought. She bites her lip, watching his trembling fingers tug at his tall boots.

After his cloak is fastened around his neck once more, Rumple gingerly dresses her, helping with her sweater and fussing with her scarf and shyly kissing her knee while slipping a boot up over her foot. In a matter of minutes, they are walking out the front door, the frigid night air chasing away all of Belle's remaining grogginess.

"Are you nervous?" she asks, noticing the tight set of his angular jaw and the way his hand fidgets anxiously against her waist.

"Aye," he admits, looking a little ashamed to be caught out. "It's been _lifetimes_ since a Bogle last married a human. And the ceremony is most…unusual." He squeezes her against him, hard and fierce. "Belle, once we reach the beach sand, we shan't be able to speak to one another until we're wed…not until after the ceremony is complete. That is," he glances at her apprehensively, _"if_ we're able to complete it."

"How will we say our vows if we aren't allowed to speak?" Belle wonders aloud. Her stomach was fluttery before. Now it's tied in knots.

"Bogles don't place a high value on _words,"_ Rumple explains. "Words are much too…" he gestures feebly, "…much too _slippery_ for us. Too transient. What Bogles value is _display."_

"Belle," he growls suddenly, halting to grasp her shoulders and meet her frightened eyes, "you must trust me _absolutely._ Know that I will always, _always_ protect you. What my kin are looking for is a display of unconditional trust. Afterwards, you will learn all of our age-old secrets. All of our peculiar magic. But where I go, Belle, you _must_ follow without hesitation, and you must not let go of me until it is all over."

She nods, shivering, "I understand. I won't let go, Rumple. Not for anything."

They begin walking once more toward the coast, and it's not long before Belle sees the rows and rows of Bogles lined up along the surf, the very young and the very old all together, looking solemn, all absolutely silent. Their brown and amber eyes are shining in the moonlight. Although she has met several of Rumple's kinfolk before, tonight their mute stillness sends a chill up her spine.

Where beach grass meets sand, Rumple stops to slip off his boots and cloak. "Now you," he whispers, "Everything but your nightgown, love. I cannot help you."

Belle shivers, tugging off her wool sweater and socks, watching the Bogles watch her. "Are they angry, Rumple?" she asks quietly.

"No, they are only curious," he assures her. "Are you ready, Belle? Once we begin we cannot speak and we cannot stop. There's only this one chance."

She nods bravely, lifting her chin, and he presses a hot little kiss to her forehead before taking her hand and leading her out onto the cold, wet sand. He has on only his long tunic and trousers, and she has only her white cotton nightgown. They are both barefoot.

They walk past the rows and rows of Bogles, straight onwards into the frigid, frothing surf, and it's a shock to feel the icy waves lick at her ankles and soak the hem of her nightdress.

Determined, Rumple continues walking.

Now the water is up to her trembling knees, and she glances over at him, cold and afraid. His brown eyes stare back, wide and earnest and pleading: _trust me, trust me, love._

Now the sea is encircling her waist, and a high wave slaps against Belle's chest, nearly toppling her. Rumple clasps her elbow and wraps his hand more tightly around her abdomen, and they continue walking: the water is up to her chest—the water is up to her chin—the water is up to her mouth…

Soon there will be no air left to breathe, not unless she begins to swim. Rumple holds tightly to her waist, anchoring her to the ocean floor.

Belle shuts her eyes just as a wave crests over her head. Instead of helping her to the surface, he tugs her downwards, and now Belle truly begins to panic, the freezing water driving all the air from her lungs. Yet just as she begins to thrash and struggle towards the surface, Rumple's mouth covers hers, and he breathes.

_Oh. _

He's breathing for the both of them, using the small, fluttering gills tucked away behind his prominent ears, the same peculiar trait that allowed him to reach the shipwreck earlier in the day. Belle wraps her arms tightly around his neck and her legs firmly around his slim waist and clings to Rumple, her mouth pressed to his while he walks them still deeper. At last, all is perfectly silent, perfectly dark, and they are perfectly still upon the sea floor.

He clutches her close, giving her all the body heat he is able, and Belle even manages to relax a bit, her body slowly, slowly adjusting to the frigid water and to the warm air passing back and forth between them.

At last, she feels his hips begin to move beneath her thighs: he is walking them back toward shore. Still she clings, kissing instead of breathing when her head and shoulders are once again exposed to the chill night air.

Rumple carries her carefully out of the water, up onto the damp sand. Nearby, the Bogles are cheering, but she huddles shyly against her new husband, shivering, breathless, knowing that her wet cotton nightgown now reveals more than it conceals.

A wee Bogle runs over with their cloaks, and Rumple sets Belle down on the sand, wrapping up his shivering bride with painstaking care before seeing to himself. Another cheer goes up when he lifts her once more, cradling his wet wife in his arms, and then the Bogles are all gathered round, vying to kiss the human girl's cold hand.

Belle presses her face against Rumple's neck, snuffling, so grateful the ordeal is over.

He carries her up the dunes, through the high beach grass, into the thick forest that borders the croft, and the Bogles' joyous shouts soon fade into the sound of the crashing surf.

Belle is surprised when they stop in front of a massive, gnarled oak. The moonlight illuminates a small, rounded door with iron hinges and a large, iron handle. There's even a little knocker made of brass. She laughs through her chattering teeth: "We're to live in a _tree,_ Rumple?"

Fumbling with the door handle while still cradling her close, he hastily promises, "It's a good deal bigger on the inside, love," and then he swings the door open and carries her within.

It actually _is_ a good deal larger on the inside and so wonderfully snug. A fire crackles and snaps in a black potbellied stove, and a tin tea set waits for them atop a wooden pedestal table. A homey patchwork quilt covers an inviting four-poster bed. The tree house's floorboards are wide, knotty, and polished, gleaming in the dim firelight. Best of all, the bookshelves lining the walls are nearly sagging under the weight of hundreds of leather-bound books.

"It's _perfect,_ Rumple!" Belle breathes, delighted when he deposits her in a small chair next to the stove.

Smiling shyly, he fetches her a blanket from a low cupboard, pressing it to her hair before draping it cozily over her lap. "And it's even more than it seems, Belle. It's our _home,_ but it's also a…a conveyance. A means of travel. This house will give us the adventures we dreamed about when we were children. Do you remember the stories you invented? About our never-ending travels and our brave adventures in far off lands?"

She smiles, reaching her hands toward the fire. "Of course I remember, Rumple! You were always getting into dreadful scrapes, and I would come racing to your rescue. I fancied myself quite the knight," she laughs merrily, "and _you_ the damsel."

He flushes at this teasing, ducking his head to hide a delighted smile. "Look over there on the high shelf, Belle. Do you see the glass dome with the clockwork and the little brass compass inside? This is our…navigator, so to speak. This home can take us _anywhere,_ anywhere your heart desires. Into the future. Into the past. Even away to other worlds altogether. There are so many worlds beyond ours, Belle."

She blinks at him in astonishment, not quite comprehending. It's too much to take in all at once.

He rushes ahead, breathless and eager to share this mystery with his new bride. "Bogles have _always_ known the secret to this sort of travel, but we guard it carefully. It must be done cautiously, responsibly."

Rumple kneels to take her hands in his, licking his lips nervously: "Belle, I cannot give you children in this world. What I mean is—we can…_lay_ together, but there would be no child." His skin darkens with embarrassment at having said these bald words. "But…in _other_ worlds, I would take on the characteristics of the inhabitants. I could be _human,_ Belle, if we travel to human worlds, and there are many such worlds. Then I could give you a child."

"And it would always, _always_ be me," Rumple hastens to add, "and the resulting child would be ours. I would only…look a bit different, is all."

He has struggled mightily with this little speech, and by the end of it he is blushing deeply, breathing quickly, unable to meet his new wife's eyes.

"But Rumple…that's extraordinary!" Belle says at last, squeezing his hands hard, then impulsively launching herself off the chair, into his startled, waiting arms. "I've always wanted to see the world, and now you say we'll see not only this world, but others as well!"

She twines her soft arms around his neck, giving him an enthusiastic, grateful little kiss. He makes a low, happy thrumming noise, deep in his throat, so she thinks to kiss him there as well: his rapidly bobbing Adam's apple, the pulse points on either side of his neck, the little hollow between his collarbones.

Rumple shuts his eyes and murmurs a gentle warning: "Belle…"

"Don't you like it?" she replies artlessly. "You'll have to teach me how, Rumple. I want to please you."

"You please me _too_ much," he explains in a strange, rough voice, so Belle bravely continues, kissing along his collarbone until his wet tunic gets in the way, listening as he struggles to catch his breath because he likes her kisses _too much._

"I want to see you," she says softly, a little alarmed at the prospect of someday making love to someone who is him but is also _not him._

Belle leans forward to tug at his wet garments, lifting the tunic up over his head, then rising to her damp, sandy feet before him, letting the blanket fall to the floor. She stares are his gaunt, gray chest, watching it rise and fall at an alarming rate.

Belle's wet cotton nightgown conceals nothing. The thicket of dark curls between her thighs is plainly visible, as well of the rosy, pebbled tips of her pale breasts.

"Stand up, love" she tells him. "Come here."

Belle walks to stand beside the four-poster bed, waiting while Rumple struggles to his feet. She sees how badly he is wanting then, studying the way that mysterious part of him presses boldly outwards against his wet trousers. It sends a little shiver down her spine. She doesn't know what she is about, exactly, only that she desperately wants to hear him speak again in that wrecked, rough voice.

"I'll catch a chill with this on, Rumple," she says of her sodden nightgown, "Take it off me…husband."

He curses softly, his hands shaking as he endeavors to lift the wet, clinging cloth up over her head. _"Belle!"_ he growls once he has at last succeeded in the task she set out for him, flexing his fingers where they grasp the bundled gown, staring hungrily down at her goose-pimpled flesh, her sweet, lovely breasts, the generous outsweep of her hips, and the damp, dark curls that disappear between her white thighs.

She reaches out, taking the crumpled fabric from his hands and tossing it to the floor. "You are _mine,"_ she tells him, slowly unfastening his wet trousers and easing them down off his narrow hips. "We belong to one another. I suppose we always have."

"Aye," he agrees weakly, and _there_ is the voice she is searching for, low and wrecked and aching.

Belle takes a small step forward, and then she is flush against him, sweeping her hands up his angular back, then back down over the swell of his taut buttocks. Rumple cries out softly at this, the hot, heavy male part of him she hasn't dared look at just yet pressing firmly against her belly, and she knows it for the gratified noise it is. A _needy_ noise.

He needs more of this.

"Show me," she whispers, reaching out to take his hands, clenched and hanging at his sides, and rests them on her soft, generous hips. His fingers clutch convulsively, and she leans forward to capture his lips for another, deeper kiss.

Their tongues twist and tangle within his warm mouth, and Belle shivers at the scrape of his teeth over her swollen bottom lip. His breath is sweet and moist and rapid, and she is reminded of their moment on the dark sea floor, the way he breathed for the both of them, the way it felt to wrap her legs around his narrow waist. Heat is coiling low in her belly, and she is ready to learn _this,_ ready for him to teach her.

"There's something—_oh!_…I've always wished for, something—Belle, _please let me…"_ Rumple kneads her hips, unable to make any more sense than this, but she understands enough to assure him, "Anything," and to allow him to lift her onto the quilt-covered bed. She draws her knees up to push herself back a little and make room for him, but he catches her mid-scoot, urging her trembling legs even further apart and dropping to his knees before her.

"Oh sweetheart," he murmurs, "Oh love," and then he is fervently kissing her soft inner thighs, breathing deeply, moving ever closer to her damp little thicket of curls and the coiled heat that waits there. It's breathtaking—and perhaps a little frightening—being spread open like this before him, shivering, gasping, reaching for his solid shoulders.

At last he kisses her _there,_ at the delicate parting of her open lips, and Belle's mouth falls open in a little _"Oh,"_ shifting beneath him, arching swiftly upwards when she realizes how _good_ this is, how extraordinary it feels to have his hooked nose buried in her dark curls and his tongue slipping between her inner folds and the warm pads of his fingers pressed deeply into her open thighs.

_"Please,_ Rumple," she chokes out, and with this encouragement his tongue is everywhere, absolutely everywhere it can reach, lapping at her soft outer lips, and then the little bud that sits atop them, and then sweeping lower and entering her in quick, hot flashes, encouraging Belle to rock up against him.

_"Harder,"_ she begs, when his nose brushes past that aching, sensitive little nub, and his tongue is thrust deep within her. His hands help her to rock and struggle, and Belle's sandy toes point and curl, and her thighs clench and tense, and then she yells for him as he helps her to crest over this ecstatic peak, rocking her gently against his mouth as she shivers and groans.

She comes back to herself slowly, astonished to find that she is all in one piece and that her eyes are wet with tears. Rumple is crouched over her, his gaze dark and intent, his lips shining.

She smiles weakly up at him. "That was…I didn't know—_God,_ I love you. Come here to me…" With unsteady legs, she edges herself upwards toward the pillows.

With a soft growl, he follows, burying his face in her warm neck and wrapping himself around her like so many nights long ago. She combs through his long hair with her fingertips, scratching at his scalp the way he loves and cradling him close. _Her husband._

"Show me how to give you…_that,_ Rumple, what you just did for me," she urges, and a near-sob escapes his throat. He rocks his hips gently against her thigh, and at last she feels brave enough to reach down and explore his hardness with her fingers.

"Like this?" she asks, wrapping a warm hand around him, and then he is lost to the world, crying out faintly and rocking, rocking, rocking until she helps him closer to the wet warmth between her legs and Rumple is able to push himself within her, just a little, slowly, supporting his weight with shaking arms.

Exhaling, relaxing as much as she is able, Belle urges him deeper and deeper until Rumple is fully sheathed and babbling against her neck, begging her, telling her he loves her, telling her he needs to—_he needs to—_

"Just let go," she murmurs, "Just let go a little bit, love," and with that tender encouragement, he does, thrusting and gasping and struggling while she twines her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, whispering how much she loves him. He sucks on her neck when his climax takes him, groaning deep within his throat, and Belle holds him close while his body jerks and quivers, calling him beautiful.

Afterwards, they slip away into sleep for a short while, his face buried against her shoulder and her hair falling over him like a curtain. Surfacing from sweet dreams, Belle murmurs, "We'll need to go back, love. Bae will worry."

"Mmmm," he agrees, adding, "And you have a letter to write this morning."

"To whom?" she whispers, then remembers, "Oh, yes, to Edgar. Poor old Edgar."

"The ninny," Rumple grumbles, and then they both drift off for a little bit longer, his hand curled possessively over her hipbone, and hers resting over his heart.

~~epilogue~~

On Christmas Eve, a massive, gnarled oak appears in the forest surrounding Storybrooke, Maine. A small, rounded door swings open, and two figures walk out into the swirling snow.

The first is a man with golden brown eyes, dressed in a dark, dapper suit. His face is careworn, but, for a human face, his female companion assures him it is quite handsome.

"What would you like to see first, Belle?" he asks, and she is relieved that his voice is the same as always, low and lilting and tender.

"Supper first," she answers decisively, slipping her arm through his, "then we explore."

They smile at one another conspiratorially, then begin walking out of the snowy woods towards a homey little cafe with a lit up sign that reads 'Granny's Diner.'

Belle has always wanted to try a hamburger.


End file.
